College in the '60s - Courses in Life, Fear, Alcoholism and Vietnam

As a senior in high school, it became obvious the life I had known was over and my future was to work on the railroad, as the men in my family had done for generations, be the first in my family to attend college, or risk a trip to Vietnam. A life working on the railroad was all too familiar, watching the men in town live long lives of back breaking work in all kinds of weather. I graduated in June, 1965, and although Vietnam was some 7,000 miles away, it felt closer knowing friends were risking their lives in combat, fighting in jungles against the Viet Cong. My life decision followed that of my close friends, so we all left for college.

On April 6^th, 1965, President Johnson authorized the use of U.S. combat troops for offensive operations in Vietnam. Although I decided on a college career, I continued to watch the selective service quota for my area. Seven guys in my county were being drafted per month, which quickly sucked up guys in my graduating class that were not college bound. I wondered who they would draft, after all those available had been drafted or volunteered to serve in the military.

Before I even donned a freshman beanie, my draft board called me for a physical. I rode in a bus full of potential draftees to the induction center, where we were mentally and physically tested. For our mental tests, the drill sergeant stood in front of our packed testing room and barked "this is an easy test and if you fail, you would continue to take it, until you pass". Next we gave urine samples, bent over and spread the cheeks of our ass for their inspection. I was pulled from line and sent to the Army doctor to check my sports related knee injuries. His evaluation declared me unqualified for military service so I was classified "4F" which was a medical deferment.

My best friend began college in the fall of 1964 and only came home, during semester breaks. He turned me onto marijuana, during the holidays that year and we got high, as he told me about college life with stories of the fun he was having away from home. I loved pot the first time I smoked it, and looked forward to getting high as a part of college life, but I was a skeptical of being on my own and worried about what I would do with all the freedom.

Nearly all my friends were eager to leave for college, but I was apprehensive wondering how I could cope with strange people in unfamiliar surroundings. My insecurity was based on experiences within my dysfunctional family, where risks were avoided, as a threat to safety and diversity caused fear of the unknown.

After graduation, I looked at the summer as a void between high school and college, to be filled with drinking and having fun. A relative offered me a summer job with a consulting firm, where I worked as a draftsman to get experience for my Civil Engineering major at Hudson Valley Community College (HVCC). Although I was accepted at bigger colleges with more prestige, I chose HVCC because it was small, close to home and less intimidating.

As the 1^st semester of college approached, Mom helped me pick out a room in a house with an elderly lady, who was renting to three other students. Since there were no college dormitories, it was on the preferred housing list, close to college, with meals provided in a quiet study environment. Mom felt good that I had a place to stay, but I soon felt claustrophobic with four guys living in one room. One guy from my hometown was staying there, so I had transportation to and from school on weekends. It seemed everyone was happy, but I felt pressure to survive and succeed.

My 1^st day on campus I went to the bookstore to buy the supplies I needed for engineering. I looked like a freshman geek with my slide rule holstered on my belt, carrying my drafting board and a pile of books.

On October 15^th and 16^th anti-war protests were held in many large cities across the country. I was hoping the protests would slow down the war and put the pressure on government to stop the fighting, instead it tore the country in two; people were either for the war or dead against it, there was no middle ground. Although I detested the war and killing, I felt detached, as I was preoccupied trying to adjust to real life and safe, knowing my 4F deferment classified me unfit for military service.

Even though I was not an active protester, there was no denying the popular protest songs swayed my age group toward peace, not war. The more I learned about the futility of trying to win a vague freedom from a poorly defined communism, I began to resent the power people, who were allowing our guys to be killed and wounded, while they secretly ramped up the conflict.

As the war continued over the years, there were times I wondered, whether I should go to Nam and fight, or live with a feeling of cowardice. I played this fight or flight conflict in my head over and over. In the final analysis, I assumed I would just be another dead soldier and felt powerless to make a difference. I developed an internal struggle with guilt over not fighting to end it, versus my intellect and gut telling me to not be stupid.

Civil engineering had difficult courses that required a pile of work outside the classroom. My roommates had less homework demands, so most nights they went to the college bars. I stayed in the room to study, afraid if I flunked out I would have to deal with mom, dad and Uncle Sam.

I had no idea what I would do without college or where I would go. After a couple weeks of studying and going home weekends, I was getting poor grades, so I took a night off and went with the guys to the College Tavern to drink pitchers of beer.

As was usually the case when I socialized in unfamiliar surroundings, I was shy and felt self conscious about how to act. I needed to escape from my fear, doubt and insecurity to have fun and alcohol gave me a quick feeling of confidence, so I could to be at ease in crowds and enjoy myself. The relief alcohol gave me was short lived; consequently the alcohol to freedom transition had to be repeated whenever I socialized.

At the College Tavern, I happened to sit next to a pretty blond coed in a booth near the bar. I drank and laughed the night away with my new friends. That night was one of the best times of my life, feeling free to be myself and gaining acceptance without strings attached.

I believe that night I moved closer to the line between drinker and alcoholic. I stopped thinking about the demands and responsibilities that ruled my life, as well as the expectations and pressure to be better than average. That wave of total freedom poured over me like a warm blanket.

Before long, I began to slip away from a sober hard working life into an alcoholic lifestyle without structure. I realized alcohol gave me the freedom to be who I was, as drinking took me to a place where I could relax and enjoy life. Drinking was my way to escape reality.

The coed invited me to go home with her, so we went to her apartment and I spent the night. The next morning I woke up not knowing where I was or how I would get back to the house. Later that morning, my sophomore roommate came to get me, since he saw me leave with her the night before and knew where she lived. As we drove back to the house, I told him I wasn't prepared for classes and I'd feel uncomfortable, since everyone else would have studied. He said "just cut the class" no one cares.

That was the end of my studying for that trimester; I became a regular at the Tavern across street from school. My grades sucked, so why bother? I went home weekends because I was broke and needed more money to drink.

I spent most of my weekends of my freshman year at the Hampton Manor, which was a college bar near my home. The Manor was located in New York State, just over the Vermont border. The legal drinking age in New York was 18, while it was 21 in Vermont, so 18 year olds crossed the state line to patronize the Manor. The atmosphere was a magnet that attracted college kids from both states and the place was packed 365 days a year with college kids waiting for "last call".

During a typical night of drinking, I met a girl from Green Mountain College (GMC), which was situated just over the state line in Vermont. My attraction to her seemed mutual and it wasn't long before we were a couple that complimented each other's out of control behavior.

One snowy night driving home from the Manor, I missed the turn onto my street and rammed dad's car into a huge snow bank. I drove forward then backward a few times to free the car, before I continued home, where the car slid past the driveway and plowed onto the lawn in a foot of soft snow. As I tried the same maneuver to extricate the car, I saw dad in his pajamas on our porch yelling at me to leave the car.

The next morning was awkward not to mention uncomfortable, as I struggled to get the car free. Embarrassment is a symptom of alcoholism, so I was helpless to prevent my shameful incidents. I only realized my out of control behavior by reflecting on episodes in hindsight, but I was never able to predict humiliating moments. I disliked and pitied myself, but my actions didn't change.

Another time I was pulling out of the Manor parking lot, as a car was pulling in and we hit front fenders. We were both drunk, so we examined the damage then decided to go to the bar and have a beer, while we discussed the crash. At some point I drove home, put the car in the garage, and went to bed. The next thing I remember was dad violently shaking me in my bed, asking me about the accident.

I denied knowing anything of what could have happened, claiming the car must have been hit in the parking lot and I didn't notice the damage on the drive home. When dad told me to sit behind the steering wheel, I saw the fender smashed into the hood, which made me reconsider my original lie.

I disappointed myself when I had to deceive people to save face, avoid an issue, or blame others for my problems. My common sense lacked commitment and I was losing self respect, as I lied in an attempt to make things appear different, so everyone would like me and not know the truth.

I drank Miller High Life for $.50 a bottle. It was the beer of choice by most college kids. Since my girl friend from GMC and I drank wherever we were together, money was in short supply, although she was from a wealthy family and had a hefty allowance. When we ran out of drinking money at the Manor, she regularly stole pocketbooks, took the money out of the purse in the girls' room, and returned the pocketbook, so we could keep drinking. The place was always packed, so it wasn't difficult and she had it down to a science.

My gut repeatedly told me stealing was wrong, but I continued to drink with other peoples' money.

I finally put mom's car to rest one night on my way home from the Manor. As I rounded a curve, an oncoming car was too close to the line in the middle of the road, so I pulled my car off the road to avoid an accident. After dodging the head on collision, my car was still moving fast along the shoulder and as I tried to gain control, I looked up and saw a concrete abutment directly in front of me, so I cramped the wheel and over compensated, driving across the road and down an embankment.

I recall seeing fence posts flying at the windshield then I was thrown unconsciously out of the driver seat, through the car, over the back seat before popping out the package shelf window. I found myself lying in a cow pasture without a scratch. I felt as though someone had placed me there. The car lay on its roof with the wheels spinning.

My passengers and I decided to leave the car and go to the local diner to drink coffee before I went home with the bad news. Dad was understandably livid, so I just sat on the couch, defenseless. I saw anger in his eyes over the latest damage I had brought on the family. That night I learned drinking coffee after drinking alcohol, only makes for an alert drunk.

The next morning I went with the wrecker to find my car because I couldn't remember the location of the field where I left it. The car looked dead, as it was still on its roof with four tires pointing toward the sky. The guy in the wrecker struggled to get it out of the pasture and up the embankment. The car was carried on his truck, because it was a total wreck and could not be towed.

The car was deposited in a junk yard. Mud and hay covered some of the damage, which added to the vision of destruction that made me feel nauseous. It was difficult to comprehend how I could have been the driver and lived, seeing the roof caved in flush on the top of the driver seat and the steering wheel flat into the back of the driver seat. If I had worn a seatbelt, I would have been killed for sure, but it was not my time to die.

Embarrassment, lying, hurting people, stealing and cheating death did not show me I had a disease. I felt I was a bad person without the will power to stop drinking. I didn't want to stop, but the ruins that became part of my life began to scare me. I just wanted to drink for fun, and then go home, without causing any problems, but my disease was in control of my drinking.

That 1^st trimester I cut classes frequently and fell deeper into the hole of failure, without hope of returning academic respectability. I drank beer regularly, got drunk and slid along with the predictable bad grades. I was asked to join the cool fraternity on campus that trimester, so I had another priority, pleasing the fraternity brothers to gain their acceptance. Becoming a brother meant I would be surrounded with a group of much needed friends.

I was flattered with the invitation to join that fraternity and jumped at the idea of pledging, giving it nearly all my attention. Grades didn't matter, even though the fraternity state charter required pledges to have a 2.5 GPA.

Part of the pledging curriculum consisted of one hell night per week for a month highlighted with bare ass paddling, using boards designed to hurt. Pledges tried to please the brothers to get merits and avoid demerits that were casually given by the brothers for no apparent reason. Each merit / demerit was entered into my pledge book by a brother to record the good things I did, as well as the bad.

To begin the weekly hell night, the pledge book merits and demerits were balanced. For each demerit that was not offset by a merit the pledge received a smack with a paddle, or a "shot" as it was called. To increase the terror, I had to stand outside the door and listen to the pledge before me get paddled

The brothers did the paddling and were called executioners, but they wore black hoods and capes reminiscent of KKK outfits to disguise their identity, so pledges would not know who was giving the "shots". The noises from behind the executioner's door made me cringe. I heard the swish and whistle of the paddle moving through the air before the smacking sound of a board hitting a bare ass or the back of bare thigh. While getting paddled, the pledges screamed for mercy. The broken pledge passed me on his way out of the executioner's room.

When I went into the room with the executioner, he said bend over and gab 'em. It was terrifying. It hurt so bad the first week, I nearly quit. The paddling during weeks 2, 3 and 4 got worse and each hit caused me to yell and my mind moved me to a stand up position, as my ass was already black and blue from taking shots in prior weeks.

Once I was blind folded and driven to a place five hours from HVCC. I was left on an abandoned road in the middle of winter in upstate New York. This was my personal scavenger hunt that required me to get a pair of panties, from a particular girl in a particular sorority house, and be back to the frat house within 24 hours, or get paddled. I walked down snowy road, until I found my way to the college, but couldn't find the right sorority house. I went to a college bar and asked a guy to buy me a beer, explaining I had been dropped off without money or identification. I thanked him, as I nursed my beer.

I went to a dorm to sleep in the lounge, but the Resident Assistance told me I had to leave, so I walked from car to car in the parking lot, until I found one open and crawled in the back seat to sleep. Through the back window, I could see and hear the snow and ice blowing off Lake Oswego towards me. I didn't sleep much that night. The next morning I found the house, the girl, and the panties, and she gave me bus fare to get back to my frat house.

It was one of the worst experiences of my life, but I did it, so I could drink with the cool guys on campus. I spent my whole life wanting people to like me. I felt validated by friendship. Obviously I would do anything, so I did not have to be alone.

I changed my major to Engineering Science after the first trimester, but that was tougher than Civil Engineering. I did well in a couple courses, but not well enough to get a good GPA. I was getting merits by going to the brothers' classes and taking good notes for them and blowing off my courses. I was living in the frat house with three other pledges, so studying was nearly impossible. There was no discipline, so drinking and parties were nightly events. I got hooked on the excitement, as well as the alcohol.

The fraternity weekend that was held in the spring of 1966, included a dinner at a swimming pool restaurant. It was the only formal occasion of the year, so guys wore jackets and ties and the girls some kind of evening gown. I invited my GMC girl friend, who I had been spending weekends and partying with for a few months.

By mid-evening we were drunk and I saw her eyeing the pool, which was just outside the glass wall from the dining room, where everyone sat for dinner. She said she needed a swim to sober up, but I asked her not to strip naked for her swim. She laughed and asked if I was crazy.

She was thinking of a swan dive from the 10 foot diving board with her dress on, so I asked if she was crazy. As usual she conned me into diving after she did, but I was confident even she would not be that stupid, until I saw her flying through the air in her formal dress, in a swan dive hitting the water. She surfaced and said OK your turn, so I dove in with my madras sport coat, white shirt and pants. She took a couple more dives, but one was enough for me, as my madras sport coat began to bleed colors all over everything I was wearing. The owner went crazy and tossed us out of the place.

The fun was over, but we were still soaking wet and needed to decide where to get ourselves together. Driving back to the frat house was too far, but my home was only a 30 minute drive, so we headed to see mom and dad. It was obvious we had to straighten out before we arrived, so we looked for a flat spot off to the side of the road to park, and let our clothes dry. It was pitch dark and tough to find any spot that was flat and big enough for a car, but we had to crash somewhere. Finally we found a grassy area, so we completely undressed and hung our clothes over the steering wheel, seats and car doors. I passed out in the front seat, while she curled up in the back.

Early the next morning I heard a tapping sound on the windshield, so I forced my bloodshot eyes to peak at the noise. It didn't take long to figure where we were, when the guys asked if they could play through.

I had parked on the 1^st tee box of a private country club, and the golfers were all looking into the car at my girl friend, waking up nude and confused. Amidst their laughter and jokes, I knew we had to move fast, but I couldn't find the car keys with clothes all over, so I begged her to help me look. Once we had them, I drove off in a hurry, as we dressed on the road home.

There were no laughs, when I arrived home to see mom and dad, who looked at us like drowned rats, which is how I felt. Mom gave her clothes to wear and I changed, then we flew out of the house, and hit the road to GMC, then I headed onward to HVCC.

As it turned out, she had not signed out for the weekend, and was expelled from school immediately, so she left to go home. The next weekend I went to pick her up, but the school told me she was no longer a student. Although she could talk her way out of situations with amazing grace, I guess the school administrators didn't care. I never heard from her again.

Before the end of my highly questionable freshman year, the college shut down our frat house and took our Greek charter, so I commuted from home the final trimester of the year and managed to earn decent grades, while driving three hours each day.

The summer of 1966, my hometown buddy and I frequently went to bars and smoked pot regularly. Grass of any kind was tough to find at my school, but I never forgot getting high for the first time, when we shared a joint months earlier. Getting high allowed me to feel free from myself, relax my mind enough to see the world in a sort of slow motion or at least look at it in a different way. The euphoria made my surroundings seem peaceful. As is the case with most addicts, the euphoric feeling captivated me, so I wanted to keep the high and continued throughout life trying to re-capture the ecstasy. I bought grass from him to smoke when he wasn't around. My mental addiction to drugs was quickly established and I would do most anything to get high.

The U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War continued to expand, and warm bodies my age, were being used to mask the government's dreadful mistake. Throw more bodies at the problem seemed their strategy. My draft board called me for another physical, since my college records were in disarray.

At this physical, the doctor said my knee was OK, I was fit for military service, and qualified to be a soldier. I lost my 4F medical deferment and received a 1A classification, denoting I was ready to fight. Physical standards for induction were gradually becoming more tolerant, and although the U.S. troops seemed to always have a better kill ratio than the enemy, we were still dying at an alarming pace, as the killing machine cranked away.

At some point in that summer, I got my draft notice to leave for boot camp. The time, date, and location were printed in bold type, directing me to report. Greetings from Uncle Sam were to be taken seriously; not reporting, as directed, meant jail time. Mom lost it and cried non-stop, even dad was pissed at my situation. I began to list my options and the consequences, deciding to leave for Canada, if I was backed into a corner.

I went to the college administration to unravel and resolve all paper issues required to classify me as a full time student to establish a 2S student deferment. I expected the paper work from HVCC would not arrive at my draft board before I had to leave for boot camp, so I agonized over becoming a draft dodger and leaving the country.

My guilt over not fighting in Nam was long gone and I knew my corpse would add 1 to a given day's body count. Reports described how we were losing the war and without a goal to denote the end of the war, I felt the conflict could go on forever, especially without an exit strategy. I believed the real goal was to satisfy the egos of the confused and dishonest leaders in Washington, until they could devise a damage control plan to stop the war without any negative impact to their political ambitions, while letting the world still believe the United States was omnipotent.

It appeared to me that our military strategies were not working and every day we stayed in Vietnam more bodies were heaped on the pile of lost lives and as the pile got bigger, so did our loss in the war. How could we make a graceful exit?

I felt training the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARNV) and giving them weapons and guidance to fight for themselves was a last gasp by our military and politicians to walk away. Since we continued to protect South Vietnam from the Viet Cong, they were content with the status quo and offered little help in defending themselves or attacking, even with the U.S. military at their side. How could Vietnamization work?

Finally I got a 2S student deferment about two weeks before I was to report to boot camp. I had dodged the bullet.

Sophomore year I worked hard as a Liberal Arts mathematics major, carrying 8 courses and 26 credit hours each trimester. My GPA was near 3.0, and I graduated on time, essentially completing two years of course work in one calendar year.

I transferred to the State University College of New York at Brockport, to pursue a Bachelor of Science degree in mathematics and stay one step ahead of my draft board. I had no career goals and continued getting high and drinking, whenever possible. I didn't know how I would live just knowing mathematics; since I already had an Associates degree and no one was beating down my door to offer me a job.

The transition from HVCC went smooth academically, but emotionally I had to go through another move to a strange place. I guess I was always afraid of change, since I grew up in a family that avoided change of any kind, but that was not their fault and I had learn to live on my own, while feeling alone.

I met my roommate and asked him to go to the college bar down town. He agreed and we got drunk together, which made me feel connected to a person I could drink with, but he was on a scholarship for soccer, so he had to be careful about drinking. Within a couple weeks I became good friends with a few guys who drank like me, so my drinking life continued.

I met the female love of my life in the dining hall next to my dormitory. I stared at her while I ate, but didn't have the nerve to introduce myself. Finally she came to my table one night at dinner and asked if I was someone she knew. Although I wasn't, we talked anyway and our relationship was born.

On January 31, 1968, Vietnam and South Vietnam announced on national radio broadcasts that there would be a three-day cease-fire during their Tết celebration. Our military command ordered everyone to stop shooting, during the three day period. I couldn't imagine taking a day off from a war, but we kicked back to rest.

The first day of Tet, a team of Viet Cong soldiers attacked the U.S. Embassy in Saigon, while the other V.C. plans for the Tet Offensive included massive assaults against cities in South Vietnam. Although the attacks were repulsed with heavy Viet Cong casualties, it showed the U.S. the deadly nature of the V.C. and their tactics. The Tet Offensive left the U.S. commanders psychologically on edge waiting for another full scale attack and caused the American public to be pessimistic.

March 16^th, was certainly a low point in the war when Lt. William L. Calley Jr.'s U.S. Army platoon allegedly killed unarmed civilians at the village of My Lai. I read the account of the destruction and felt compassion for the dead, envisioning the fear of the villagers pleading for life, as they were shot down. I was embarrassed for our country, and tried to understand what drove the troops to wreak such carnage. It begged the question of how many more U.S. outfits were roaming Vietnam with death in their hearts.

On April 4^th, a shot rang out at 6:01 P.M. and fate dealt the country another blow to peace and freedom, as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who had been standing on the balcony of his room at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, TN, lay sprawled on the balcony's floor. A gaping wound covered a large portion of jaw and neck. A great man, who had spent thirteen years of his life dedicated to nonviolent protest, had been felled by a sniper's bullet.

On June 5^th, Senator Robert F. Kennedy was making his way through the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, to give a press conference, after winning the California Primary. Suddenly, a Palestinian Arab, Sirhan Sirhan, stepped forward, and fired a .22 revolver at the Senator. Sirhan was quickly subdued, but not before Bobby Kennedy was killed. Sirhan was arrested at the scene, charged, and convicted of first degree murder.

I wondered why the murderers of JFK, RFK and MLK had not been proven guilty beyond a doubt. Each assassination was steeped with controversy, and in fact, the individuals caught and prosecuted for the murders may not have been guilty. I wasn't convinced they were lone gunman, but no one else was investigated. It seemed the country was at a point, where killing for what you wanted was easy, and only one person went down for it. I thought this kind of violence only existed in 3^rd world countries.

I saw and heard the country's feelings of shock by the assassinations, as the war continued to wear us down. The nerves of Americans were raw and exposed and it was clear to me people were in pain. I hoped the government would proactively show its people that positive action was taking place to protect its leaders and that controls were in place to stomp out the fires of fear.

Two fraternity brothers transferred to SUNY Brockport from HVCC, after graduating a year later than me. It was my senior year, when they arrived and partying became more frequent and drugs more plentiful. We protested the war; blacks burned down their dorm; everyone was high; and we danced around black and strobe lights, grooving on the rock music of this new generation. However, we felt the unrest on our campus and knew we were only a small satellite, relative to the chaos that had consumed larger universities and the country in general.

My girlfriend and I got engaged that fall and planned a wedding after my graduation. We discovered in February of 1969 she was pregnant and we were confused without many options. At the time aborting babies was dangerous, and pro-choice movements hadn't gained the backing and exposure enough to help us, so she carried our daughter to full term. I was excited to be a father, maybe in a naïve way, but I wanted the baby. We were married with my wife five months pregnant.

In the spring of 1969, I realized a new drug culture was emerging. It was more than just getting high. It was a new way to live. Rock music, drugs and freedom fueled my senses, as I eagerly move deeper into new lifestyles. My clothes identified me as radical and although the peace message was not accepted by everyone, I didn't care.

All of my friends partied it was a new way of life for my generation, and I felt the love and peace. Communal life styles shook mainstream America by its foundations, and we became known as hippies. What a relief I felt, being with peaceful people.

After graduation my wife and I began the odyssey of our lives when we parted from everything that was familiar. We had our love child in October, so the three of us became a family, defining what our era was all about. All we had were ourselves, which was enough to be happy.

My view of the world became hardened, but I stuffed my anger, and found a peaceful way of life that was calming me, like I had never been calmed before. I wanted to live a peaceful life, so I floated into a world of alcohol and drugs trying to get away from all my negative feelings.

I learned during my college years 1965 - 1969, that alcoholism is a fatal disease and is progressive and left untreated never gets better. In recovery, I found a faith that I will be OK, which has replaced my fears.

Until I was willing to accept life on life's terms, I struggled trying to control people and their surroundings. Acceptance is the key to my peaceful life and living one day at a time keeps me in the moment not worrying about the future, nor reliving the past.

I continue to learn about the Vietnam war and twice visited the Vietnam Memorial Wall to see the 58,000+ names of the dead and still wonder how could this country sacrificed some much and got so little. I believe Washington ignored the lessons of the Vietnam tragedy and is using the lives of Americans to fight in Iraq. In my opinion, Iraq is another war that has a manufactured a purpose without exit strategy, waiting for solutions that hinge on political motives.